


Maybe That's Enough

by thebaddestwolf



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwolf/pseuds/thebaddestwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David reacts to Billie's engagement to someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe That's Enough

He doesn’t call her when his mate tells him the news. Doesn’t text her when it hits the papers a few days later. Doesn’t email her when they release a joint statement officially sharing their happy announcement with the world.

What he  _does_  do is pour over every moment, every touch, every word of their time together, particularly the last time they saw each other. His mind catches on the sound his glass made when it hit the wall, the way her voice cracked when she called him a coward.

In some ways, it’s easier to think about the ugly times than the happy, contented moments stretching out among their tangled timeline; stolen touches under tables, sweet kisses in grimy alleyways, cold mornings spent wrapped in sheets.

It takes all his strength not to tear up the wedding invitation when it arrives, all creamy and pure like their engagement isn’t tarnished, like she hadn’t been sleeping with her best mate behind her boyfriend’s back for months.

Like she hadn’t been the one to ask him to give her a reason to leave.

(Then came the broken glass, then came  _coward_.)

Two days later when he sees them at a dinner party he shakes  _his_ hand a little too hard when he tells him congratulations, moves his lips away at the last second when he leans down to kiss her cheek. 

Then he sets about avoiding her in a calculated maner, never quite meeting her gaze at the long dinner table, laughing loudly at the insipid jokes of other female guests. 

He won’t admit to himself the relief that washes over him when she asks to talk with him in an empty sitting room at the back of the house, followed by the pent-up anger that takes its place when she sits on the opposite end of the couch.

"It’s white," he says, smoothing his hand along the cool leather. "How fitting."

"Why’s that?"

"It’s the color of your betrayal." 

She huffs at that, worries the ring around her finger and he has an urge to rip it off, fling it across the room and hope it shatters just like the glass. Someone once told him that diamonds are the only material that can make a scratch on granite; he thinks he’d like to test that theory. 

"How can the betrayer be betrayed?" 

He slides closer to her on the couch and clasps his hand over hers until her fingers still, until the ring digs into his palm. 

"How can you tell him forever when you said the same thing to me?"

He slides his fingers from her now balled-up fist down to her knee, pushing up the silky fabric of her dress.

"You were fucking me when I said that," she sneers, the sharpness in her voice causing him to dig his nails into her thigh.

"What difference does that make?"

"It makes all the difference."

He moves his hand forward, fingers inching along her smooth skin and she acts as if nothing is happening, like they aren’t even touching. He watches her as his hand approaches the apex of her thighs and smiles when he sees the faint redness that begins to bloom across her chest. 

"If words uttered in the heat of passion count for nothing then all of Shakespeare’s sonnets are a wash," he whispers, mouth looming over her neck as his fingers finally reach her knickers. 

Her gasp is hot against his ear and he bites down on her collar bone, covering a snicker at the feel of how fucking wet she is for him.

"Sod off with your Shakespeare," she breathes as she spreads her legs,  dress bunching higher against his wrist as he slides a finger into her. 

She slouches on the couch to give him a better angle, wraps her fingers around his arm to try to force him deeper. Light bounces off her ring, catching his eye and prompting him to yank his fingers from her clenching cunt, from her grasping hand. 

She glares, tries to pull her dress back down, but he tugs her hips forward and pushes the fabric up above her waist, peels her soaked knickers off and grabs her damn left hand. 

He glides her ring and middle fingers into her, watches as the diamond becomes slick and shiny, then hovers over her with his one arm braced against the couch while the other fucks her with her own fingers. 

"It’s just metals and minerals," he groans into her ear, cock beginning to strain against his trousers. "That doesn’t make it real."

"What, compared to lying and sneaking around?" she gasps as he forces her fingers deeper. "Is deceit more real than commitment?"

With a growl he releases her hand and stands, tugging her upward and steering her around the couch. 

"Let’s save the philosophical discussion for later," he breathes, placing her hands on the back of the couch and pressing himself against her, sighing at the slight relief of friction on his throbbing cock. 

He plunges one hand inside the neckline of her dress, running a teasing finger over her nipple until she moans, then pinching it between his thumb and forefinger until she moans again. 

She pushes her bum against him, moving her hips in tight circles and his mouth latches onto her neck, sucking hard. 

"Don’t," she spits, moving her neck away and turning to glare at him, gasping when he bites her bottom lip, sighing as she slides her tongue into his mouth. 

Their kisses are messy and panting and desperate as he frantically works at his fly, as she hitches her dress above her hips. When he finally positions his cock at her entrance he teases her, pressing the tip against her, letting it slide in an inch before withdrawing and leaning forward so it glides over her clit. 

She breaks their kiss and whimpers as she grinds against him, trying to urge him into her, and it’s not long until he bites down on her shoulder. 

"Say it," he mutters against her skin. 

"Fuck me," she pleads.

"That’s not it," he whispers as he glides through her folds, one hand gripping her hip while the other tweaks her other nipple. 

"Forever."

"Nope."

"I love you."

Finally he drives into her, inch by painstaking inch, and her knuckles turn as white as the leather as she clutches the back of the couch. When he’s fully sheathed in her wet heat he rocks his hips further, making her call out so loudly that both of their eyes fly to the still open door. 

He clasps his hand over her mouth firmly as he begins to move, slow short thrusts that soon lengthen and quicken, until the room is filled with sounds of slapping flesh and her muffled moans. 

Mouth latching onto her neck again, he presses her forward, changing the angle as he snakes a hand between her body and the couch, teasing her clit lightly until she starts to sob against his hand, then stroking it roughly until her sobs turn choking and silent. 

Her muscles squeeze around him and he lets go too, thrusting hard and deep as he comes inside her, biting her shoulder one last time as he shudders. 

The sadness strikes him then, that they’ve been reduced to this, that their sweet, whispered words have become jagged and manipulative. 

He turns her around and kisses her deeply, longingly, cradling her face in his hands. 

"I love you," he breathes against her lips, wondering if the dampness he feels on his cheek is from his eyes or hers. 

"It’s not enough," she whispers sadly when he steps back to look at her, the welt on her neck already a bright burgundy. 

"I know," he says, dejected, as his gaze falls to the floor, but not before glancing the thin stream of cum trickling down the inside of her knee.

He helps her clean up and rights her dress and locates her knickers beneath the coffee table. She straightens his tie and kisses him again before heading for the loo. 

After a few minutes he sneaks out the back door, decides to walk a few blocks in the crisp night air before hailing a cab. 

It’s not closure in the traditional sense, he postulates as the cars speed past. Not a full stop or a comma or an elipses, but a semi-colon. A link.

And maybe that’s enough. 

 

 


End file.
